Florence Nightingale Comedy Mysteries Box Set

by Barbara Silkstone

  Richard Monckton Milnes

  Monckton Milnes was a Member of Parliament and a poet of some note. He was a persistent suitor of Florence Nightingale and one of her staunchest supporters. She repeatedly refused him and he subsequently married someone else. His easy good nature was regarded as a detriment to his political career. It was said of him that as he advanced in years he became keener in sympathy with all popular causes and livelier in his indignation against injustice. He believed in the advancement of women. He was interested in parapsychology and was a member of the Society for Psychical Research.

  Author’s Notes

  Hi there!

  I hope you enjoyed the first book in my new series of Florence Nightingale Comedy Mysteries. Please consider leaving a review; they are so very important especially for a new series just taking its first baby steps! I would so appreciate even a short review. Hugs!

  Please click here to leave a review and once again…thank you ever so much! The Giggling Corpse

  More Florence Nightingale Comedy Mysteries coming soon!

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  Barbara Silkstone is the author of over forty novels and novellas including the hilarious Wendy Darlin Capers – a five book series of screwball comedy adventures. She has written twenty Pride & Prejudice variations both Regency and Contemporary—always with a light comic touch. Enjoy her Mister Darcy series of comedic cozy mysteries – a nine book contemporary series in which Darcy is a secret member of the modern day Knights Templar. Silkstone is also the author of The Witches of Longbourn – a three book series imagining Darcy and Elizabeth as witches who come together to save the Prince Regent from one of Darcy’s spells that has gone terribly wrong.

  Most Silkstone books are available in ebook, paperback, and audio versions.

  Fall in love with laughter!

  Barbara Silkstone

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  The Killer Corset©

  Barbara Silkstone 2018

  ISBN: 978-0-9992495-6-7

  Copyright Barbara Silkstone.

  All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, or specifically mentioned in the Historical Note at the end of this publication, are fictitious and any resemblance to any real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Characters

  All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, or specifically mentioned in the Historical Note at the end of this publication, are fictitious and any resemblance to any real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Queen Victoria did in fact honor Florence Nightingale, recognizing her services during the Crimean War. In 1856, Queen Victoria awarded Florence Nightingale a brooch known as the Nightingale Jewel. At that time suitable awards for female civilians did not exist. Designed with the assistance of Prince Albert, the unique brooch was engraved with a dedication from the Queen that read, “To Miss Florence Nightingale, as a mark of esteem and gratitude for her devotion towards the Queen’s brave soldiers, from Victoria R. 1855.”

  It is with respect and reverence that I have taken liberties in creating a humorous sleuthing career for Miss Nightingale, which occurs before she became the legendary ‘Lady of the Lamp.’

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  About this book

  The Killer Corset – Book 2 in the Florence Nightingale Comedy Mystery Series

  Florence Nightingale and her able assistant, Poppy Throckmorten find themselves up to their crinolines while solving the murder of a lady-in-waiting at Buckingham Palace. As they track the killer they uncover a plot to kill Queen Victoria. Poppy must use the detective skills she has learned from Florence while the duo work against the clock to secure the Queen in time to meet her future husband. Clean and wholesome read sweetened with chuckles and snark. This is Book 2 in the Florence Nightingale Comedy Mystery series.

  Journal of Poppy Throckmorten

  September 1839

  Chapter 1

  We had been summoned to Buckingham Palace by Queen Victoria on a matter both urgent and top secret. Florence Nightingale sat on my left and Granny on my right as we waited for the Queen in her private salon. This time there had been no maids to primp us in preparation for our audience with Her Majesty. Florence was still draped in her dark blue cloak, while Granny and I remained in our travel coats. Lady Jane had rushed us from the carriage to the sitting room so nippily I barely had time to look around for a glimpse of the handsome footman called Moon.

  Our journey from Derbyshire had come about with little warning. All we knew from the Queen’s letter was that Lord Melbourne was in dire need of—me? I could not wrap my mind around the idea that the Prime Minister of England needed the help of a sixteen, well, almost seventeen-year-old girl. Her Majesty’s letter was as clear as the smog in London.

  Florence, Granny, and I stood to curtsey as the Queen entered the parlor. She was alone. It was unusual that not a single lady attended her for she had five ladies-in-waiting who acted as her companions. Being followed about by a herd of chattering women who were in constant agreement with everything I said would drive me loopy, but it came with the job.

  Barely smiling, Queen Victoria placed herself informally across from us on a small settee, placing her King Charles Spaniel, Dash, at her side. Although she was older than I by four years, this day she appeared young and vulnerable. I knew for certain she was neither, as she had quickly developed a reputation for strength and sound judgment—most of the time. I liked her from the first moment we met; she was my third favorite female after Granny and Florence.

  The soft peach color of Victoria’s gown complimented her ivory complexion giving her a radiant glow and reminding me of the first rose of spring. Her dark hair was swept up in the same style she wore when last we saw her with a plait at each side and clasped in curls at the back of her head. Her Majesty’s face shone with relief at the sight of us, and her blue eyes twinkled in welcome.

  Although it had been less than three months since we last gathered together, I had forgotten how at ease Queen Victoria made us feel. In her company we became three girls and a granny sharing a chinwag. However, this time the expression on her face removed any thought that this might be a light-hearted chat. She lowered her voice, despite the fact that we were alone in the room.

  The pristine setting of the royal parlor made me aware of the grubbiness of my travel clothes, which I had worn daily throughout our long journey from Derbyshire. I snuck a peek at the floor to be certain I hadn’t left any muddy footprints. A sigh of relief slipped from my mouth for the marble floor was clean—not like during my first visit.

  In response to Athena’s chirp, Florence reached into her pocket, cupped the owlet in her hand and placed it on her finger. She held the bird against her chest while the little ball of fluff looked about the room finally settling her huge eyes on the Queen’s countenance with a passing glance at Dash. Her Spaniel looked at the bird raising one brow in curiosity but remained obediently at his mistress’s side.


  We waited for the Queen to speak. The very fact that there were no servants in attendance was a clue that we were about to have a share in an important secret.

  “Ladies, we are pleased you were able to respond so quickly. We trust our urgent request for your company did not upset your parents.”

  “They were happy to see us off,” Granny bent the truth, a tad.

  Queen Victoria smiled softly, relaxing her stiff posture.

  “I meant the Nightingales and Throckmortens were pleased to send us,” Granny piped. “My parents have no idea where I am!”

  The four of us laughed. Any tension was broken and we were once again friends who had come together to solve a problem—possibly a very serious problem.

  Uncomfortable at my grandmother’s fib I couldn’t avoid thinking about the scene that led to our departure. Mama had been steaming like a teakettle about to blow its whistle.

  “Okay” I had said, knowing my mother loathed new words. Okay was the newest word I learned during my first stay in London and I said it with a touch of sass, wishing to test her nerves. Okay was such a fun expression, almost as delicious as dandy when it rolled off my tongue.

  According to Mama any expressions stemming from the “sewers of the City” rankled her for she fancied herself Mrs. Throckmorten, queen bee of Milton-on-the-Marsh, custodian of morals, manners, and grand protector of the English language. Okay was not okay with her.

  Placing my hand over my mouth by way of an unmeant apology, I nodded my understanding of her command to take a chaperone with me and return before dark. Mama was not pleased about my traveling to Lea Hurst, the Nightingale family estate since she had restricted my visits with my dear friend Florence. My mother had determined Miss Nightingale was a bad influence on me. “That girl is full of radical, independent ideas. She’s gotten too big for her bonnet!” Mama would go off on a tirade, “Mark my words, she will end up a miserable old spinster!”

  I had received an urgent message from Florence requesting a meeting with her immediately, if not sooner. It appeared our presence was once again required at Buckingham Palace. A personal invitation from Queen Victoria did not allow for shilly-shallying. There was little my mother could do to prevent me from going to Lea Hurst to learn the details of the Queen’s request.

  Granny had fidgeted with her shawl, a sign she was eager to assume her duties as chaperone. Papa’s mother had more bounce than the India rubber ball weapon I carried in my pocket—and she was twice as resilient. The elderly lady quickly recovered from our latest adventure abroad, while I was still languishing from exhaustion.

  Smitten with Lord Melbourne, Granny was keen to return to court and resume her one-sided flirtation with a man young enough to be her son. Rather than taking our maid as my chaperone to Lea Hurst and perhaps on to London, I chose Granny as she was more mischievous that a barrel of elves and quite a flirt to boot. The dear lady made a delightful boon companion and a terrible guardian.

  “Come, Poppy! Let us be off,” Granny had said. “We must not keep Miss Nightingale waiting; it is best we remain on her good side as someday she will be famous.”

  Mama cringed. It rankled her to admit that Granny was probably right. Miss Nightingale would someday be a name to reckon with.

  The thought of returning to Buckingham Palace sent spidery feelings of anticipation tingling up my arms inspired by recalling a set of wide shoulders, and a pair of bright blue eyes—I did not mean Queen Victoria’s.

  Mama’s first reaction to my request for use of the carriage was a sharp absolutely not, as she took pleasure in being obstinate. Unbeknownst to my female parent, I had been studying how Florence dealt with her mama, and I had honed my mother-management skills.

  “No matter!” I said, turning to leave the parlor. “I shall walk to the Nightingales’. It’s only three miles, and if I wear a wrap under my cloak the cold September rain won’t bother me a bit.” I turned to my grandmother. “Best put a cloak on over your shawl, Granny.”

  Mother assumed an expression I was very familiar with—a cross between a hostile hen and a forbearing fox as she acquiesced to my using the carriage. It was not for our protection from the elements that Mama finally relented from her obstinacy and permitted me the use of the carriage; but rather she feared the humiliation of having her daughter seen trudging in the rain accompanied by the elderly Mrs. Throckmorten.

  Mama had surrendered—I knew she would—besides she was curious. Why had the Queen of England included me in a letter to the almost famous Miss Nightingale? What charm did I possess that Mama failed to see?

  I was pleased with how I had managed to turn things around with a few well-placed words. The carriage would whisk my rascally grandmother and me to the Nightingale estate. It was just a matter of a daughter knowing the correct mother-strings to pull.

  Knowing a tall tale might some day come in handy, I led Mama to believe I had a mystery suitor in Her Majesty’s Court. I refused to disclose any further information, claiming that the slightest bit of gossip might ruin my chances.

  Of course the story was a bit of a stretch—a stretch equivalent to touching the opposite banks of the Thames at the same time. For though the man who caught my eye was in Queen Victoria’s court, he was a mere footman. And no mention had been made of marriage—how could it—given the difference in our statuses and the fact that we had hardly spoken? But that didn’t stop me from dreaming of his magical eyes and roguish smile.

  Now the opportunity to once again see the footman named Moon seemed to present itself. I could hardly contain myself and sought to suppress my excitement by wondering what Mama would look like with purple hair. I often find comical imaginings are wonderful distractions and frequently indulge in them.

  “Miss Nightingale is the most troublesome of your acquaintances. Association with her will taint you,” Mama repeated her warning as Granny and I marched out the door with her final words trailing behind us like the cry of a raven. “Her family may have wealth and connections, but she is destroying her reputation every time she tends to the poor or worse yet, visits those wounded soldiers. Scandalous! Mark my words she shall rue the day!”

  Chapter 2

  Shaking off the memories of our departure, I returned to the present as Queen Victoria motioned us to draw closer. “What we are about to tell you must remain between us. No one is to know of our fears; we are concerned for the wellbeing of Lord Melbourne.”

  Granny gasped, moving her hand to her chest. One would have thought that she had pledged herself to William Lamb, Viscount of Melbourne. He was gentleman enough to take her flutterings in good grace, but there were times when I wondered if she might be growing a bit dotty as she wandered through her eighth decade.

  The Queen continued to speak, “We rule the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland by virtue of our birth and have been able to hold the throne because we have the greatest Prime Minister a monarch could desire. Unfortunately, there is one who stands ready to force us from power,” the Queen frowned. “Oh bother!” She flicked her hand across her lips as if to clear the air. “This royal we business is much too confusing, I don’t know how you can understand me. I am never sure whether I am speaking for myself or for an assemblage. When I am in your company, I shall just be me—I.” She sighed freeing herself from her pluralized burden.

  “It does get befuddling,” I chirped. I peeked at Florence who cut me a frown. Will I ever learn to think twice before voicing my opinions, no matter how honest?

  Victoria continued, “My one surviving uncle, Lord Cumberland, has done his evil best to weaken my position as sovereign using whispers and innuendoes. He was driven to near apoplexy when I was crowned at the age of eighteen without naming him as Regent to rule in my stead.” She shook her head in distress. “I want you to know why I desire to keep Lord M at my side; my uncle Cumberland takes pride in being known as ‘The Butcher’! Now the man has extended his stay at the Palace—indefinitely.”

  Granny’s bony fingers dug into
my arm. “Ouch!” I yelped returning Florence’s startled look. It shamed me to think I fretted over something as trivial as my parents’ approval in coming to London while Victoria waged battles with formidable pretenders who slithered in silence.

  “Cumberland is like a hungry rat, nibbling at the corners of a breadbox, trying to find an opening,” the Queen said. “His desire for the throne is no secret but he plays his politics close. He has allies in the palace whom he has bribed for their allegiance.”

  Allowing my gaze to slip around the room, I looked for spies hiding behind the draperies or sliding panels who might be serving the enemies of the Queen. I reached in my dress pocket reassuring myself of the presence of my only weapon—my hard India rubber ball. Perhaps someday the Queen might allow me to include a bit of palace intrigue in my journal of Florence’s adventures for these are the things that attract readers. My book of notes traveled everywhere with me hidden in the lining of my cloak.

  Florence studied the Queen looking for signs of disorder in her mien. My mentor believed stress caused sickness and the monarch was clearly under duress.

  “Lord Melbourne wishes to retire from his post as Prime Minister,” the Queen said, fighting back a frown that drew creases across her brow. “He has gone so far as to suggest his replacement.”

  I did not understand how I was to solve the Queen’s problem. My pleading Her Majesty’s case would hardly sway Lord Melbourne from a life-changing event. I stared at our sovereign waiting for her to get to the point.